Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time.
Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme.

13 September 2008

this is our tale

a sort of secret in this open yardwhat is best hidden cannot be said plainbut may be whispered when the window's barredso many stories of that concealed stainof all the ones who went against the grainand let the rope and leather simply fallthe beast escape from the well-guarded stallmatters like these are not beyond surmisewords might be spoken at noon in the hallthe winner is not he who gains the prize

you do not see the sign upon the cardthat might be said to mark the loss or gainof those who need to earn your good regardthe ones who speak know you will not remainonce all the symbols cease to be arcanefor what is sugar may one day be gallthat which now pleases must swiftly appallif you aren't told that we should now adviseyou must not let these foolish ways enthralthe winner is not he who gains the prize

an honest purpose may be easy marredby those who want to tighten up the chainand laugh and you the silly avant-gardewho seek the pleasure and forget the painthat comes on later you cannot abstainfrom taking part in the far larger brawlthat is expected when you hear the callof the strange forces that reshape the skiesand come upon us like a sudden squallthe winner is not he who gains the prize

prince we are here for quite the longest hauland ready for the struggle great or smallwe may seem paltry to your noble eyesbut we will make it though we have to crawlthe winner is not he who claims the prize